Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Look, Alice, you must be tired after your journey. I’ll just—”

  “Actually, Eric, what I need most is the bathroom. And I’m still a bit hungry.”

  “Say no more, love.” Eric spun on his heel and disappeared, the door softly closing behind.

  Alice glanced about. Ah, a half-bath on the left.

  When she emerged she found that her quarters consisted of a sitting room—furnished with a pale green couch and three emerald-green chairs, a low, glass table, a holovid, a netcom, and a dark federal-gold writing desk, and a small wet bar with refrigerator—and a separate bedroom beyond—with a federal-gold king-sized bed with pale green satin coverlet, two emerald wingback chairs, a federal-gold chest of drawers and a like dresser with bench, a second netcom, a second holovid, and another gold writing desk. Attached to the bedroom was a full luxurious bath appointed in green and gold. Eric said it was a first-class operation. Behind the sliding doors of the bedroom closet, she discovered her suitcases sitting on stands, waiting to be unpacked.

  As she hung up the last of her clothes, there came a soft tapping on her door. It was Eric, and he bore with him cheese and apples and a bottle of French cabernet.

  “Oh my, Eric, where—”

  Eric grinned and put a finger to her lips. “Ask not whence this Viking raids. Be only glad that he does.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Swift now, love, let me in before I am discovered and we are all undone.”

  Alice shook her head—”Same old Eric, I see”—and stepped aside, closing the door after him.

  As Eric rummaged through the wet bar drawers, flatware clacking and clattering, Alice cored and quartered the apples. Now and again he brushed against her and she wondered if it were accidental. “Aha,” he said at last, holding up a corkscrew. “Success!”

  Silence fell between them, broken only by the shkk of the paring knife and the crkk of the corkscrew.

  They both spoke at once: “Alice, I—” “Eric—”

  He smiled. “You first.”

  “No you, Eric.”

  Now his grin widened. “All right. I never argue with a woman who has a knife in her hand.

  “Look, when last we—”

  There came a knocking on Alice’s door.

  Damn!

  It was Caine and Hiroko, Caine grinning, Hiroko’s eyes dancing with suppressed glee. Hiroko hissed, “We saw you nip out of Coburn’s private kitchen, Eric, loot in hand. We’re here to share the goodies.” She produced a box of Belgian chocolates; Caine, a loaf of French bread and another bottle of red wine, this a Burgundy.

  Moments later there came another tap on the door. It was Meredith who scooted in, clutching a second loaf of French bread, several more apples, and a small stone jar of goose-liver paté. “Up the Black Foxes,” she hissed as she whisked inside.

  As the door closed behind, the room filled with laughter.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Caine, while reaching for another cube of Pont l’Évêque. “I mean, here we are putting our brains into the hands, er, into the, hm, into the something-or-other of a machine. No wonder old shark lips had us sign those waivers. What d’y’ think? Is it safe? Or are we totally gone ’round the bend?”

  Meredith shrugged. “You’re the doctor, Kane”—she used his Black Fox name—”and a better judge of that than we.”

  They sat on the floor in a circle around the low table, the filched booty spread before them. Eric refilled Hiroko’s glass with the last of the cabernet, remarking, “Don’t worry, Ky, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  Hiroko smiled, her tilted eyes crinkling. “I know, Arik. I saw the racks when I just happened to, um, accidentally pass through the kitchen.”

  Alice swallowed the last of her apple. “You know, Kane’s got a damn good question. Is it safe to put our brains into the, uh, clutches of an AI?”

  Eric shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know, Lyssa. But Timothy assured me before I gave him the go-ahead to arrange this reunion that it was completely safe. After all, he’s been in and out several times, and he looks to be all right.”

  “In and out?” asked Meredith.

  “Of VR,” responded Eric.

  “Ah,” she said in understanding.

  “Yeah,” added Eric. “Timothy’s been testing Avery’s Itherian reality—goes in as a seer named Trendel—and as I say, he seems none the worse for the wear.”

  Meredith nodded then turned to Caine. “Well, Kane?”

  Caine took a large bite of bread dolloped with paté. “Rith?” he managed to say.

  “Do you think it’s safe?” she clarified.

  Caine shrugged and chewed for a moment, then swallowed. “Look, we use machines in my profession all the time: sonic scanners, diagnosticams, resonators, lase-blades, whatever. Hell, sometimes we inductively stimulate the brain to hemisync mental patients into calmness, to put others to sleep, to break depressions in yet others, and so on. Most of the tools Adkins talked about, well, we use them every day. But a doctor is at the controls, and not a damn machine.”

  “Um,” asked Meredith, “do you mean that Coburn Industries is, in effect, practicing medicine without a license?”

  Caine shook his head. “Nah, Rith. Not with Doctor Jerk on their staff. Too, since he’s the head of the medical department, I suspect he’s got some qualified thralls grinding under his heel.”

  Eric turned up a hand. “Well, both Tim and Toni seem to think it’s safe.”

  “Huh,” grunted Caine. “Tim, he strikes me as the kind who shoots wads of paper at one of those little wastebasket hoops . . . or better yet, ties tiny streamers to flies who then buzz around the room and advertise nonexistent products or better yet bear ecological messages. And that Toni Adkins—ah, buxom Toni Adkins—did you glim those bedroom eyes? All cool and Brit on the outside, but a volcano on the inside. Maybe even a biker babe. She’s probably got a tattoo somewhere.”

  “You think so?” asked Eric, waggling his eyebrows. “Probably a wolf howling at the moon, eh?”

  Alice leaned over to Hiroko and said sotto voce, “Methinks we hear two wolves howling at the moon.” All broke into laughter.

  “Ah, but we stray,” said Meredith with a sigh. “The real issue is not Timothy’s fly-tying habits, nor the secret life of Doctor Adkins, but it is instead the safety of this incredible venture we are caught up in.”

  “There is this,” said Hiroko, sobering. “Arthur Coburn is going to go in with us. I do not believe he would do so if it were dangerous.”

  “That’s right, Ky!” exclaimed Alice. “One of the richest men on the planet would have checked it out thoroughly, don’t you think?”

  “Better still,” mused Eric, “I don’t believe the staff would let their meal ticket go with us if it were dangerous. Hell, if something were to happen to him, where would that leave them?”

  “Probably up the smelly creek,” said Caine.

  There came a knock on the door. Guiltily, they all looked at one another. Again came the knock. “Ssst,” hissed Caine, “Lyssa, you answer the door. The rest of us will stand together in front of the table.”

  As they all scrambled to their feet, Alice stepped to the door.

  Once more came the tapping.

  Alice glanced over her shoulder at the array of Foxes, trying in vain to look innocent while blocking the view. With a sigh, she turned and opened the door.

  There stood Arthur Coburn, a basket of ripe strawberries in one hand, the other clutching a magnum of champagne in an ice-bucket. “I thought right about now you’d nearly be out of wine and cheese and other booty and needing more refreshments. May I join you?”

  Alice grinned and stepped aside and bobbed a small curtsy.

  Laughing, Coburn returned a bow and entered.

  “Timothy told me that I should plan on using a name that is similar to my own,” said Coburn. “That way it’s easier for those on the outside to remember just who is whom.”

  “Yeah,” said Caine. “That’s the same
way we chose our Black Fox names, way back when we first got together—back in our college days.”

  Coburn cocked an eyebrow and shook his head. “Oh, all the way back to then, eh? What, ten, twelve years ago? I mean, compared to me, you are just a bunch of young jackanapes. Look, I’m sixty-eight. Why, I have twice the years of the eldest of you.” He glanced at Meredith, and saluted her with his glass of champagne.

  “More than twice,” said Meredith, grinning a toothy grin, “but just barely.”

  As before, all sat on the floor ’round the low, glass table, Arthur Coburn joining them. The red wine was gone, and most of the cheese, and all the bread. A slice or two of apple remained, and most of the chocolates. The basket of strawberries was well depleted, and about half of the champagne was gone.

  By this time the Foxes and Coburn were quite mellow.

  “What name did you pick?” asked Hiroko, dipping a strawberry into champagne and then popping it into her mouth.

  “I plan on going in as Arton, thief, retired,” answered Coburn, then he burst out in laughter, as if at some secret joke.

  “Salut, Arton!” cried Eric, raising his glass.

  Salut! exclaimed the Black Foxes together.

  Coburn smiled. “Salut, Lyssa, Arik, Rith, Kane, Ky,” he said, naming them each in turn.

  The glasses were pinged together, and all downed their champagne.

  Caine looked about. “What the hell, no fireplace. I suppose we’ll just have to postpone hurling the crystal until another time.” Laughing, he lifted the magnum from the ice and replenished all drinks.

  Following Hiroko’s example, Alice dipped a strawberry in her champagne and bit down on the sweet tartness. “You know, Arton,” she said as she chewed, “before you got here, we were wondering about Avery. I mean, is he really a true AI?”

  “Oh yes,” declared Coburn.

  “Hm,” mused Caine. “You know, I haven’t really thought much about intelligence at all—natural or artificial. But I would think that if the science of artificial intelligence were straightforward, machines like Avery would have come about long past. So it must be quite an arcane field, eh?”

  Taking a strawberry, Coburn nodded and said, “Arcane? Yes indeed. In fact, at times it’s downright mystifying.”

  “Just how does Avery work?” asked Hiroko.

  “Ha!” barked Coburn. “I’m no expert on this. You really should ask one of the others—Stein . . . or Rendell.”

  At the mention of Stein’s name, Caine groaned. “Not Doctor Jerk, please! See here, Arton, it’s your project. Surely you’ve been briefed well enough to put it in layman’s terms. I mean, none of us is an expert.”

  Arthur shrugged. “What the hell, Kane, why not?” He tossed off the last of his champagne, and as Caine replenished the glass, Coburn said, “Look, AI depends on many, many things, but among all of them, I consider four to be absolutely critical.” He held up four fingers and ticked them off one by one:

  “First, the discovery that the visual cortex contains multiple maps of any given image, and the subsequent discovery that each of the other senses holds multiple maps as well.

  “Second, the establishment that consciousness, awareness, is a shuttle which plies among these multiple maps to make sense of that which we see, hear, smell, taste, feel, or kinesthetically sense. And the more complex the brain, the more complex the shuttle has to be, until it represents intelligence itself.”

  “Third, the discovery of the specific mechanisms which drive neurons to establish new interconnections.

  “And fourth, the development of mutable logic, a combination of software and hardware, both of which, in effect, duplicate this neurological evolution.”

  Coburn sipped from his refilled glass. “Any questions so far?”

  Hiroko nodded. “I have questions about them all, Arton.”

  “Fire away, Ky.”

  “Well, take your first point: why on God’s green earth would a visual cortex have multiple maps of a given image? Isn’t one enough?”

  With a conspiratorial whisper Coburn said, “Good question, Ky. And surely one we can unravel. Just let me perform the mystical magical ritual of logon.” He turned to the netcom. “AIVR,” he intoned.

  The netcom came to life “Name?” came an androgynous voice.

  “Arthur,” replied Coburn.

  “Key?”

  “Coburn.”

  “Hello, Mister Coburn.” The holovid activated, the air above it displaying Avery’s endlessly swirling spectrum.

  Coburn turned to the others. “Look, hitch around so you can see the vid.” As they did so, again Coburn spoke to the netcom:

  “Uh, Avery, our guests want me to—ha!—to give them a briefing on AI. So show the holo of the owl monkey.”

  Avery’s spectrum vanished, and where it had been now a monkey scampered among tree limbs, springing from branch to branch.

  “This is the little guy that started it all,” said Coburn. Then: “Avery, freeze on a close up.”

  Motion ceased, and the holo zoomed in, showing a large-eyed monkey clinging to a limb and staring outward.

  “Now give me a head shot only, in profile, then expand and show us the maps of the visual cortex.”

  The holo expanded and rotated, until only the monkey’s head was shown in profile, nearly three feet across. Slowly the image faded, as if the outer monkey were growing transparent, and its brain appeared, colored a greyish white. Then the whole anterior part of it took on bright hues—reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and violets—each color limited to specific zones.

  Grunting, Coburn stood and stepped to the holo. “This is what Allman and Cass discovered back in the sixties. See, there’s more than a dozen different maps of the visual field.” The holo began to slowly rotate, revealing all the colored zones. “Of course, nobody knew at the time that this finding would turn out to be one of the critical keys to AI. In any event, this discovery posed the very same question that you asked, Ky: why on God’s green earth would a monkey have repetitive visual maps in its brain?

  “But then researchers discovered that not only do owl monkeys have repetitive maps, but so do snakes and turtles and macaques and horses and any other damn animal that has a visual cortex—including humans.

  “Avery, show us a human’s visual cortex.”

  The rotating holo shifted to that of a human brain, the back of it, too, divided into zones, striped with a range of hues.

  “Researchers found that each of these zones functions differently in its manner of storing or dealing with the very same images. Some concentrate on color, some on shapes, others on apparent sizes or changes in dimensions, some deal with edges, some deal with moving edges, some with motion, and so on. They also discovered that there was a lot of overlap in the functions of the various maps.” Coburn paused to take a sip of champagne.

  “What do they do,” asked Hiroko, “all these different maps?”

  Coburn grinned at her and set his glass aside. “As far as anyone knows, the only reason for a multiplicity of maps is that visual specialization of separate areas of the brain yields better visual discrimination. Hence, they simply evolved as a matter of survival. You see, any given visual image is broken down into its component parts, each part assigned different weight in accord with some evolutionary survival dictate.”

  Meredith spoke up. “What you are saying, Arton, is that in the case of our owl monkey friend, something large and yellow with black spots and a face with eyes and moving stealthily toward him might cause him to flee. Whereas something small and yellow with black spots with a crescent shape and swaying in the wind might cause him to reach for it in hunger.”

  “Exactly so, Rith,” replied Coburn. “But remember, it’s not just the sense of sight we’re talking about, but all the other senses as well—hearing, touch, taste, smell, kinesthetic.” As he named each of these, additional colored zones appeared in the holo. “When it comes to the senses, they all have multiple maps; they all speci
alize; they all play a role in survival.”

  “All right, Arton,” said Hiroko, “I think I understand. Now let’s move to your second point: consciousness—tell me, just what is it, and how does it work? And how does it lead to intelligence?”

  Before Coburn could answer, there came a tapping on the door. It was Timothy Rendell; his eyes took in the scene of the soirée, and a hint of a smile creased his lips. “Well, I came looking for Black Foxes in case there were any questions, and here I’ve found the entire skulk.”

  “God, am I glad to see you,” said Coburn, drawing Timothy inward. “These folks nearly have me backed up to the limit of my knowledge.”

  “Oh, how so?” asked Timothy. Hiroko scooted aside, making room, and Timothy sat, accepting a glass of champagne from Alice.

  Coburn scratched his silver hair. “Well, they’ve asked me to explain AI. Avery is helping with the holos.”

  “Well, sir, if you’ll carry on,” said Timothy, “I’ll stick in a word or two here and there.”

  “Arton was just on the verge of telling us about consciousness and intelligence, Timothy,” said Hiroko.

  Timothy smiled at Hiroko’s use of Coburn’s persona name. “Call me Trendel,” he said, glancing about, “and I’ll call you all by your Black Fox names, if you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Oh, please do,” said Meredith, turning a dazzling smile his way.

  Timothy grinned back, then looked at Coburn. “Again I say, carry on, Arton.”

  Coburn stooped down and plucked a strawberry from the basket. “All right—the subject is AI. First, let me give you my definition of consciousness.” He took a bite of the berry. “Consciousness acts like a monitor on our existence—we’re always checking out where we are, what we are doing, what we are perceiving, how we feel, and the like—and we do so because we are constantly encountering new situations, situations where one or more stimuli trigger firings of various clusters of neurons in several maps more-or-less simultaneously . . . and we need to make sense of those encounters.” He took another bite.

  “Let me point out that individual neurons fire rather frequently, and at random. But these individual firings rarely generate a need for the monitor—the consciousness—to pay any attention. But when an entire cluster goes off—bang!—or when lots of clusters go off in conjunction—kaboom!—well then, the attention spotlight is drawn to that area . . . the monitor checks it out.”